The Dark Eldar, who proclaimed themselves the nightmare of the galaxy, seemed to have long forgotten the painful lesson of their stronghold, Commorragh, being thunderously obliterated decades ago by the Ultramarines leading the Imperial Coalition. That divine retribution, aimed at their eternal feast of torment, did not completely eradicate these soul-hungry predators. Like spreading fungi, they continued to roam the shadowy corners of the galaxy, searching for targets to raid, using the pain and fear of mortal lives to prolong their twisted existence.
However, this time, they chose the wrong prey and underestimated the identity of the hunters. They ran into not the weak convoys or unprepared worlds they usually bullied, but masters more proficient in fear, more skilled in torment, and more enthusiastic about fighting violence with violence—the Night Lords.
When Konrad Curze personally led his most elite and ruthless Black Armour Guard into battle, the raid instantly turned into a one-sided slaughter and hunt. The Dark Eldar Pirates' proud speed and cunning seemed so pale and powerless in the face of Nostramo's shadows. Their slender figures were torn apart by the ripping of Lightning Claws and the roar of bolters, their ornate armor shattering like paper.
Those unfortunate Dark Eldar who were captured and not killed on the spot were taken back to the 'nightfall,' which was like a mobile fortress. What awaited them was not simple execution, but the 'art' of torture methods accumulated by the Night Lords Legion over ten millennia of betrayal and dark crusades. Their wails and pleas became part of the background noise of this battleship, like a hymn offered to the Emperor.
The head of the Black Armour Guard, Zso Sahaal, like a cold recorder, extracted the last shred of valuable intelligence from a Dark Eldar Pirate who had been continuously 'interrogated' for over twenty standard hours—a not-insignificant Dark Eldar stronghold located nearby, hidden on the top level of a Hive City world, and secretly colluding with the local Planetary Governor.
After confirming that the pirate could no longer yield any useful information, Sahaal didn't even spare a glance for the almost shapeless body, turning and leaving like a true shadow, heading directly to the bridge to report to his Primarch Father.
"My Lord," Sahaal's voice was like two pieces of ice colliding, "we have learned of a large Dark Eldar stronghold from the captured xenos, located on a Hive City world in a nearby star system. Estimated travel time, one standard hour."
Curze was standing in the shadows of the bridge, slowly shaking off the not-yet-fully-congealed Dark Eldar blood clinging to his Power Fist. The dark purple blood glowed eerily in the dim light. Hearing Sahaal's report, the characteristic crimson glow in his deep-set eyes suddenly flared, flashing with a nearly fanatical craving for hunting and punishment.
"Increase speed," Curze's voice echoed through his bat-faced helmet with the cold resonance of metal scraping, "Empty all valuable materials, supplies, and cargo from the smuggler ship. Once done, the fleet will depart immediately."
He raised his still-dripping Power Fist, pointing to the marked Hive City world on the star map, as if he could already smell the pervasive corruption and betrayal there.
"The blood of the xenos will pave our way home."
On the grand and oppressive bridge of the 'nightfall,' in a relatively bright area furnished with ancient astropathic instruments, Otani—the astropathic choir girl brought back from despair by Sevatarion—was performing her newly assigned duties. Appointed personally by Konrad Curze, she had become the 'nightfall's' Chief Astropath, bearing the heavy responsibility of transmitting information and navigating the star sea for this Legion operating outside the Imperium's light.
She wore a majestic black robe, embroidered with the lightning and bat-wing insignia of Nostramo, contrasting sharply with her golden hair. With her hands clasped before her chest and eyes closed, she began to chant ancient and profound astropathic prayers. Her astonishing psychic talent and vast psychic reserves were fully displayed at this moment. Even without the assistance of a large choir, her pure and powerful psychic vibrations alone could penetrate the turbulence of the Warp, accurately establishing contact with other Imperial forces—especially Lion El'Jonson and his Dark Angels—to report the Eighth Legion's location and movements, and receive instructions from the Lion King of Caliban.
Sevatarion, the newly appointed First Company Captain, stood silently not far from her, like the most loyal guardian. His eyes, which had witnessed so much betrayal and death, would show a rare, deeply hidden tenderness and concern when he looked at Otani. He had personally witnessed the slaughter of her choir, seen her fear and despair, and had brought her away from those ruins. Now, he guarded her new life, as if guarding a faint but pure starlight in the darkness.
Another special member, Koreni, had been recommended to the Primarch by Sahaal. Although she could currently only perform those Eldar-style dances and could not communicate fluently in gothic, Curze still kept her by his side, personally undertaking a form of 'cultivation.' The rebuilding of the Legion required utilizing all available resources and traits, even if she was an Eldar girl. Koreni's Craftworld psychic potential and artistic perception might play an unexpected role at some point in the future.
Of course, Koreni occasionally had some 'minor complaints,' such as how Lord Curze was simply too tall; she had to strain her neck to barely see his chin covered by the bat-faced helmet, which made her slender neck ache a bit.
At the same time, Koreni had completely given up the idea of returning to the Eldar Craftworld. On one hand, she clearly sensed that her sister, Kolesa, was on a human battleship somewhere, and she yearned to find her only relative; on the other hand, her terrifying experience at the hands of the Iron Warriors had left her with too deep a psychological shadow. In comparison, staying by Lord Curze's side, who, though taciturn, at least would not torment her, gave her a greater sense of security. The only drawback was that Lord Curze spoke too little, which sometimes made her, with her naturally lively disposition, feel a bit bored.
As the last crate of looted supplies from the smuggler ship was transported into the 'nightfall's' cargo hold (after all, smuggling itself did not conform to Imperial regulations, so the Night Lords considering it 'booty' was perfectly reasonable), the massive Night Lords fleet began to adjust its course, engines spewing out an eerie blue light, like an awakened swarm of bats, heading towards that den of iniquity, the Hive City world.
Curze stood at the very front of the bridge, his cold gaze seemingly piercing through the void, settling on the opulent and decadent Hive City on the top level of that planet. In his mind, a clear and ruthless plan had already taken shape:
Silently eliminate the Dark Eldar entrenched in the upper levels of the Hive City, or, even 'better,' let them personally experience the 'hospitality' of Nostramo's deepest alleys. Then, turn the Planetary Governor who dared to collude with xenos into a warning 'work of art,' hanging him in the most conspicuous place in the Hive City, so that all officials and citizens on this planet could clearly see the fate of betraying humanity and colluding with xenos.
Finally, under the pretext of 'cleansing xenos and maintaining the security of Imperial territory,' 'reasonably' demand from this 'rescued' planet all the supplies the Legion currently most desperately needed—from ammunition and weapons to medical supplies, from food to battleship fuel.
This plan, in Curze's view, was simply perfect. It satisfied the Legion's craving for battle and punishment, replenished valuable resources, and at the same time demonstrated the Eighth Legion's 'efficiency' and 'value' to the Imperium. His prophetic abilities also subtly indicated to him at this moment that this expedition would be exceptionally smooth.
"Depart."
The cold command rang out again, with an undeniable resolve. The shadow of the night bat was about to envelop that unfortunate Hive City world.
Time passed slowly in the monotonous confinement; another three days had gone by. Outside the heavy alloy door, apart from the Apothecary who periodically came to check vital signs and the heavy, rhythmic footsteps of the rotating Honor Guard, there was no other sound. There was no sign of Dorian and Cassius being released.
Based on the occasional hushed conversations of the Chapter serfs on guard outside, Cassius learned that the fleet had safely arrived in the Vespastor region and had begun to make contact and share intelligence with the local garrison—the forces of Decimus Felix, the Hero of Vespastor. Ordinarily, Cassius would be extremely attentive to such strategic movements, but at this moment, only one thought revolved in his mind—
Hunger.
A strong, primal hunger gnawed at his stomach like countless insects. He hadn't consumed any substantial food for five full days. While an Astartes Brother's superhuman physique could endure far greater hunger than a normal human, it didn't mean they didn't require energy replenishment. Prolonged starvation would lead to the body's functions being overdrawn, strength waning, and reaction speed decreasing—a state extremely dangerous and unbearable for an Astartes Warrior always ready for battle.
Cassius had tried asking the attending servants, and even attempted to "order" them with the First Company Captain's authority, but received only rigid and cold replies citing regulations. He had also thought of contacting Lieutenant Golden or Gaius, but communication privileges in the detention cell were strictly limited, preventing him from reaching the outside world. He even... in a moment of extreme hunger, entertained the absurd thought of humbling himself before Dorian, the culprit in the next cell, but his dignity as a Captain immediately crushed that notion.
He could only lie helplessly on the cold metal bunk, feeling the emptiness in his stomach and a wave of slight dizziness from lack of food, listening to the faint, seemingly still energetic movements from Dorian next door. The intertwining of his inner fury and physical weakness made him doubly tormented.
Just as Cassius felt he was about to hallucinate from hunger and began to consider if he really needed to swallow his pride and find another solution, a different sound echoed from the corridor outside the detention cell.
First came the familiar, heavy footsteps of the Honor Guard, followed by two distinctly different, light and crisp sets of footsteps approaching from a distance.
"Halt, Tech-Sergeant Aila Si. This is a restricted area. No one is permitted to visit without the Chapter Master's permission," the emotionless voice of an Honor Guard Warrior rang out, like a cold gate.
"Oh dear! Let us in! We just want to see the Captain! We'll be out quickly!" a clear, slightly playful female voice replied; it was Aila Si.
"Regulations are regulations. Please leave," the Honor Guard's answer was unequivocal.
Then, Cassius heard a dull thud from outside, accompanied by Aila Si's "Ouch!" of pain. Clearly, she had tried to punch the Honor Guard Warrior's hard leg armor with her soft, tiny fist equipped with a miniature Power Fist, only to have her own small hand sting from the rebound.
"You... you won't let me in!" Aila Si seemed a bit exasperated, threatening with a very convincing fake whimper, "I'll go tell the Chapter Master! I'll tell him you bullied me! I'll make him lock you up with the Captain too! For one standard month!"
Coming from her, especially with her pained voice, such a threat sounded utterly unthreatening, even a bit comical. Like her fist, which was only fit for tickling the warriors, it served no practical purpose other than to highlight her audaciousness.
The Honor Guard Warrior outside seemed to fall silent for a moment. Cassius could almost imagine the look of helplessness on the helmet-covered face. Which of these Honor Guard members hadn't been harassed or kicked by this little terror? They had long developed considerable "immunity" and... an understanding, regarding her mischievous behavior.
Finally, Cassius heard an extremely faint hydraulic hiss, as if power armour joints were relaxing, followed by the Honor Guard Warrior's deliberately lowered, almost self-muttering voice: "...I didn't see anything... hurry up..."
The heavy airtight door lock hissed softly, and the door opened a crack from the outside.
Immediately after, Aila Si, like a little bird escaped from its cage, pulled another slightly hesitant figure and darted inside with a "whoosh." Her target was clear; she headed straight for Cassius's detention cell, pressed against the observation window, and excitedly called out in a hushed voice:
"Captain! Captain! Look! I brought your wife to see you!"
Cassius's spirits, which had risen slightly at the arrival of visitors, instantly vanished with that sentence. He sprang from the bed like a cat whose tail had been stepped on!
"What nonsense are you spouting?! What wife?!" He rushed to the door, snarling at Aila Si through the observation window, his voice hoarse with hunger and indignation, "Aila Si! Where did you hear these absurd rumors?!"
Aila Si was startled by the Captain's reaction and shrunk her neck, but then, with righteous indignation, pointed to the golden-haired woman beside her—Laya—who was blushing and bowing her head from embarrassment and shyness.
"Don't you know, Captain?" Aila Si blinked her large green eyes, wearing an expression that said, "You actually don't know," "Because Master Dorian said before that Sister Laya was given to you as a wife! Now the entire battleship knows! Even those priests who only care about mechanical ascension are discussing it!"
"..."
Cassius felt a rush of blood to his head, his vision blurring, and his ears ringing. He could almost see Dorian's punchable face and hear the countless warriors and crew members of the entire fleet whispering behind his back.
"Ah—!!! Dorian! I'm going to kill you right now!!!" Cassius let out a suppressed roar of fury, raising his foot to kick the sturdy alloy door of the detention cell. But his foot was only halfway up when he remembered the deducted nutrient paste rations, totaling half a year, and the many more penalties that might follow... He felt as if his strength had been drained, his raised foot fell limply, and he slumped, almost sliding, back onto the bunk, covering his face with his hands.
Meanwhile, Dorian, in the next cell, had been scared out of his wits the moment he heard Aila Si's "Captain! Your wife is here to see you!" He clapped his hand over his mouth, his breathing barely audible, frantically praying internally: "Oh, you little terror! Please stop talking! If you keep this up, your beloved Master Dorian will truly be beaten to death in this detention cell!"
Aila Si seemed completely oblivious to having poured another bucket of oil onto the Captain's anger, and also unaware of Dorian's silent despair next door. She looked at Cassius's despondent appearance and his somewhat pale face from hunger, remembering the real reason for her visit.
From her small satchel (heaven knew how her seemingly small satchel could hold so much), she pulled out a large, substantial-looking synthetic bread wrapped in clean oiled paper. Then, to the astonished gazes of Cassius and Laya, she somehow produced a few small tools and quickly fiddled with the control panel by the detention cell door—with a soft "click," the small transfer port at the bottom of the door, used for delivering food, was forcibly opened by her from the outside!
She shoved the large bread inside, then said to the still somewhat bewildered Cassius, "Here! This is Sister Laya's ration that she saved especially for you! She said... it's to compensate you for losing a month's nutrient paste because of her!"
Laya's cheeks flushed even redder upon hearing this, and she lowered her head, nervously twisting the hem of her clothes, not daring to look at Cassius.
Cassius's gaze was instantly captivated by the large, fragrant bread. His stomach protested even louder, almost convulsing. The temptation of food, like the most powerful enemy, instantly shattered his remaining defenses concerning the Captain's dignity.
He almost pounced, grabbing the bread. But he still retained a shred of sanity and... decorum. He quickly closed the small door of the transfer port, blocking the sight of the two women outside, then, with a voice as steady as possible but still with a tremor, he whispered through the door:
"...Thank you."
No sooner had he spoken than the sounds of ravenous, almost tearing, eating came from inside. That synthetic bread, hard as a brick, became a delicacy bestowed by the Emperor in the hungry Astartes' mouth.
Aila Si nodded in satisfaction, then pressed against the observation window and called out, "Captain, eat slowly! We're leaving now!" Then, she also shouted to the detention cell next door: "Master Dorian! I came to see you too! But I didn't bring any food for you!"
From next door came Dorian's faint whimper, almost crying, filled with gratitude and terror.
Having done all this, Aila Si, pulling the still shy and bewildered Laya, left the detention area with satisfaction. As she reached the door, she didn't forget to raise her small foot and give the "lenient" Honor Guard Warrior a light kick on his heavy leg armor, as a "revenge" for his earlier obstruction.
The Honor Guard Warrior watched the small pink head disappear around the corridor corner, shaking his head helplessly, and raised his power armour-covered hand to wipe the visor of his helmet, as if wiping away non-existent sweat.
This little one... had kicked almost every member of the Chapter's Honor Guard. Yet, everyone was helpless against her. This was probably a unique and vibrant "scenery" aboard the Macragge's Honour.
Holy Terra, the center of power and faith for the Imperium of Man. Even now, with the Great Rift tearing through the galaxy and countless worlds plunged into darkness and chaos, this ancient planet still maintained a facade of superficial glory and order, as if the shadow enveloping the entire Imperium was merely a distant rumor.
Lion El'Jonson, after concluding the brutal and critical conflict on Drathemiandas, did not rest much. His weathered face still bore a trace of fatigue from the long expedition, but his hawk-like eyes burned with undeniable resolve. He knew that some news had to be conveyed quickly, and some decisions had to be faced by the Imperium's highest decision-makers—whether they were ready or not.
He directly summoned the High Lords of Terra. In this magnificent hall, symbolizing the Imperium's supreme authority, with its soaring dome adorned with the Imperial Aquila and bas-reliefs of human heroes, twelve High Lords who could arrive in time gathered. Their gazes, whether curious, solemn, or with their usual bureaucratic scrutiny, fell upon the Lion who had just stepped into the hall.
Lion El'Jonson offered no superfluous pleasantries. He stood by the giant star map table, getting straight to the point, his voice as steady and powerful as the ancient rocks of Caliban. He first briefly reported the devastating damage inflicted upon the planet Drathemiandas by the Daemon Primarch Angron and his Khorne forces, emphasizing the immense scale of destruction, "no less than a small Exterminatus operation," where tens of billions of innocent lives were annihilated, and entire industrial and shrine worlds were reduced to scorched earth.
Upon hearing this, the High Lords showed expressions of shock, anger, or worry, exchanging opinions in low voices. The threat of Chaos had always been the Sword of Damocles hanging over the Imperium, and the personal intervention of a Daemon Primarch sounded the most piercing alarm.
However, it was Lion El'Jonson's subsequent words that truly dropped a bombshell into the seemingly calm waters of power.
"...During this engagement against Angron and his daemon legions," Lion El'Jonson's gaze slowly swept across the face of each High Lord, "we received assistance from an... unexpected force. Furthermore, the leader of this force expressed a desire to return to the Imperium's fold."
He paused slightly, allowing the prelude to take effect, then clearly declared:
"Konrad Curze, and the Eighth Legion he leads—the Night Lords—have returned. I, Lion El'Jonson, in the name of the Lord of the First Legion, on Drathemiandas, provisionally accepted their return."
"..."
Silence.
A brief, vacuum-like silence enveloped the entire hall.
Immediately, like cold water thrown into a boiling oil pot, the entire High Lords of Terra Council instantly erupted!
"What?! Konrad Curze?!"
"This is impossible! He was assassinated by an Assassinorum agent ten millennia ago!"
"The Night Lords?! Those infamous butchers, psychopaths, and purveyors of fear?!"
"They return? By what right do they return?! Their crimes are too numerous to recount!"
Discussions, questions, exclamations, and accusations mingled, filling this hall that should have been solemn and dignified. Almost all of the High Lords' faces were etched with disbelief and extreme opposition. They clung to records and rumors from ten millennia ago, unable to accept that a Primarch and his Legion, long declared dead and burdened with the gravest charges of betrayal, would reappear and even propose a "return"?
The discussion continued for a moment, and the consensus reached was almost uniformly against it. A High Lord in charge of judicial affairs even stood up on the spot, questioning Lion El'Jonson impolitely with an accusatory tone:
"Lord Jonson! I cannot understand! Since you encountered Koz, why did you not uphold the Emperor's will and execute this dangerous traitor Primarch on the spot, to eliminate future troubles?! Instead, you accepted his seemingly absurd 'return'?! Are you being responsible to the Imperium, to the Emperor?!"
These words already carried a strong offensive meaning. A Lion Guard, standing behind and to the side of Lion El'Jonson, his head covered by a Caliban winged helmet, turned slightly, muscles tensing beneath his dark green power armour, his hand gripping the hilt of his great sword tightening sharply, and he took a step forward. With just a glance from the Lion King, he would not hesitate to rush forward and slay the fool who dared insult a Primarch and the Lord of the First Legion on the spot, washing away this disrespect with blood.
However, Lion El'Jonson merely raised his hand slightly, a simple gesture, and stopped the Lion Guard's impending fury. He took a deep breath, his rationality, honed by ten millennia of time, forcibly suppressing the surging, violent impulses of the "Lion" deep within him. He knew that venting his anger here was meaningless and would only make things worse.
He looked directly at the impertinent High Lord and all those who opposed him, with eyes that seemed to see through all falsehood, his voice maintaining an astonishing calm, but the coldness and majesty within it gradually quieted the noisy hall.
"Execute him on the spot?" Lion El'Jonson repeated the phrase, with a trace of imperceptible sarcasm in his tone. "When I arrived on Drathemiandas, Angron was tearing that Hive City world apart. It was Konrad Curze who fought alongside me, together confronting and ultimately banishing our Daemon Primarch brother. His Legion Warriors, in the process of purging daemons and fighting traitors, also shed blood and made sacrifices."
He surveyed everyone, his gaze sharp: "As for intentions and resolve, initially, like you, I was full of doubt and distrust. I even questioned whether, after ten millennia of madness and exile, Koz still had the ability to restrain his Legion, known for its indiscipline and brutality."
He changed tack, his voice suddenly becoming even heavier, as if bearing the darkness of the entire galaxy:
"But, High Lords, I implore you to open your eyes and see the era we are living in! The Imperium is no longer the Imperium of Man that swept across the star sea and was at its zenith ten millennia ago! We are in a dark age where external enemies are constantly growing stronger and internal crises are rampant!"
"Abaddon's Black Crusades have never ceased, and the shadow of the Fourteenth Crusade is gathering! The corruption of Chaos is insidious, breeding traitors and heretics within the Imperium's borders! The Tyranid devourer fleets are like endless tides, the Eldar, the Orks... various xenos forces constantly threaten human survival!"
His voice was like a heavy warhammer, striking at everyone's heart:
"In this era, we need to unite all forces that can be united! We need to utilize all weapons that can be utilized! Yes, the Night Lords' methods are brutal, their ways are deplorable! But it is precisely this brutality, this extreme use of fear, that can be used against those enemies of the Imperium who are equally brutal, or even more evil! Use the blood of traitors to cleanse traitors, use the fear of xenos to torment xenos! Is this not more valuable than letting the blood of our loyal warriors be shed in vain?!"
Lion El'Jonson's statement was clear, calm, and full of pragmatic considerations and strategic helplessness. He tried to make these High Lords, who resided in the core of Terra's power but might have long been removed from the bloodshed of the front lines, understand the cruel reality the Imperium now faced.
However, he was disappointed.
Many High Lords' faces still wore that ingrained arrogance and shortsightedness. They were still immersed in the illusory dream of the Imperium's "eternal existence," unable or unwilling to face the impending existential crisis. Their way of looking at problems still remained at the level of political maneuvering, factional struggles, and maintaining superficial stability.
Some even muttered under their breath that Lion El'Jonson's actions were "compromising with traitors," "defiling the Emperor's glory," and "bordering on treason."
The Lion Guard's hand once again pressed against his sword hilt, the fury in his eyes almost bursting forth. He could not tolerate these ignorant fools slandering a Primarch, the Lord of the First Legion.
Lion El'Jonson again raised his hand, stopping his loyal subordinate's impulsiveness. He looked at the bickering, shortsighted High Lords before him, a deep sense of powerlessness and annoyance welling up within him. He knew that any more explanations would be like talking to a brick wall for these people whose eyes were blinded by power and inertia.
His edges, which had been relatively smoothed by ten millennia of time, now seemed to stir again, wanting to resolve this meaningless argument in the most direct, most Caliban way.
But he ultimately restrained himself.
'Enough,' Lion El'Jonson sighed inwardly, 'wasting my breath on these fools is less effective than letting Robert handle this mess.'
He believed that his brother, Robert, who was skilled in politics and administration, Roboute Guilliman, the awakened Lord Regent, would have more patience and means to "educate" these High Lords and make them face reality.
Otherwise, he truly feared that his temper, which he had managed to rein in with great difficulty, would once again stage a "purging of the ranks" within this sacred hall.
On the edge of the vast but relatively weakly controlled Ultima Segmentum, the main world of the Caanus Sector—Caandus—was a typical Hive City world, suffocatingly stratified. Its lower levels were bottomless slums permeated with industrial waste and despair, where countless beings struggled to survive like ants; the middle levels were where countless laborers toiled day and night like machines, supporting the operation of the Hive City with their sweat and blood in exchange for meager resources; and only the towering upper and top levels, bathed in artificial sunlight, were a paradise for the powerful and wealthy merchants. They looked down upon the wealth created for them by billions below, indulging in endless luxury and debauchery.
The ruler of this planet, Planetary Governor Hector Malcolm, was the most 'dazzling' presence in this decadent paradise.
However, his power and pleasure were not entirely built on legitimate taxation and governance.
He had long ago struck a dirty deal with a group of Dark Eldar Pirates who had fled from the ruins of Commorragh and found their way here.
He tacitly allowed, and even secretly assisted, these xenos predators to 'randomly' raid mortals in the middle and lower levels of the Hive City to satisfy their perverse craving for pain and fear.
In return, the Dark Eldar brought their 'partner' unimaginable xenos technology, rare treasures, and... the illicit power that ensured his rule was stable.
Governor Hector had long been addicted to this path of wealth and power, bought with the blood of his subjects, and could not extricate himself.
He enjoyed the female slaves, gifted by the Dark Eldar, who possessed inhuman beauty and seductive skills, and savored delicacies and fine wines from distant worlds, believing his rule would be as impregnable and eternal as the Hive City itself.
However, he was wrong.
When the massive 'nightfall' and its escort fleet, seemingly formed from condensed shadows, quietly arrived in orbit around Kaandass, like the cold eyes of Death opening, Governor Hector's days of debauchery began their countdown.
On the top floor, in a lavish and opulent banquet hall within the Planetary Governor's mansion.
Governor Hector, as usual, reclined on his spacious chair made of precious wood and silk.
A scantily clad, alluring Dark Eldar female slave nestled in his arms, her slender fingers feeding him a peeled, exotic fruit.
Several servants in crisp uniforms stood around, eyes downcast, and the air was filled with the mixed scent of expensive incense and alcohol.
Everything seemed as usual.
Until Governor Hector inadvertently glanced to the side and noticed that one of the servants who had been standing by the wine cabinet was missing.
He initially paid no mind, assuming the servant had gone to fetch something.
But as time passed, he noticed that the servants standing around were disappearing one by one, silently, as if evaporating.
The hall became increasingly empty, leaving only him and the female slave in his arms, along with an unsettling silence.
When the last servant, carrying a wine bottle, also vanished into the shadows of a side door and never returned, Governor Hector finally felt that something was amiss.
It was an instinctive biological alert to potential danger.
"Someone!"
He put down his wine glass, his voice trembling imperceptibly, trying to mask his unease with authority, "Where has everyone gone?!"
Only the echo in the empty hall answered him, along with the female slave's puzzled, bell-like whisper from his arms.
Just then, the heavy oak door, intricately carved and leading to the main corridor, was silently pushed open from the outside.
A figure, as if peeled from the deepest night, stepped into this opulent space with steady, oppressive strides.
He wore the characteristic black power armour of the Night Lords, but the details revealed his unique status.
The edges of the armour plates were polished exceptionally sharp, and some joint connections were even covered with profane decorations made of treated, textured pale skin, silently narrating his master's cruelty and hunting records.
His helmet was not the common bat-winged or skull design, but a more practical style resembling an ancient gas mask, with the eye lenses being two cold, crimson slits, and a thick breathing tube snaking like a viper from the end to a filter unit on his chest plate.
Most striking was his left shoulder pad, which abandoned the traditional monolithic design in favor of multiple layers of sharp iron plates, like grotesque scales, clearly sacrificing some defense for greater flexibility in close combat.
This was a Black Armour Guard, the most elite, ruthless, and closest to the Primarch's will among the Eighth Legion's killers.
When Governor Hector saw this uninvited guest, he was initially stunned.
He had, of course, heard of the fearsome reputation of the Night Lords, but he did not immediately panic.
In his foolish perception, corrupted by wealth and power, these renegade Astartes warbands occasionally appeared on Imperial frontier worlds, invariably to extort supplies, or seize populations for slaves, and as long as their demands were met, they typically would not kill rulers with whom they could 'cooperate long-term'.
He even thought this was another Night Lords warband he didn't know about, sniffing him out for 'business'.
He composed himself, embracing the Dark Eldar female slave in his arms even tighter, as if this xenos female slave could provide him with some sense of security.
Leaning back in his luxurious chair, he put on the airs of a Planetary Governor and asked with a hint of arrogance:
"My lord Astartes, may I ask the purpose of your late-night visit? Do you require supplies? Weapons? Or... a population?"
He flashed a self-satisfied smile, "Just name it, as long as it's within my capabilities, everything is negotiable.
I, Hector Malcolm, am most fond of befriending... strong individuals like yourself."
However, facing his 'generosity', the Black Armour Guard offered no response.
No electronically synthesized voice even emanated from beneath the gas mask helmet.
Only an extremely deep, eerie laughter, as if squeezed from deep within his chest and carrying a metallic grinding texture, faintly echoed through the breathing tube.
"Hmph heh heh heh... heh heh..."
The laughter was not loud, but it instantly pierced Governor Hector's feigned composure like cold needle points, making all the hairs on his body stand on end.
He suddenly realized that this Astartes before him seemed... different from the other Chaos raiders he had encountered before.
Before Governor Hector could react further, two Night Lords Warriors, appearing like phantoms from the shadows, had, with lightning speed, brutally dragged him from his chair, twisted his arms behind his back, and locked them tightly with specialized magnetic shackles.
The Dark Eldar female slave in his arms let out a short shriek, then was easily picked up by another Night Lord, thrown to the ground, and cowered in fear.
"You... what are you doing?! I am the Planetary Governor! You cannot treat me like this!"
Governor Hector finally felt fear; he struggled and roared, but in the face of that inhuman strength, his resistance was as futile as an infant's.
The leading Black Armour Guard slowly stepped forward, his crimson gaze from behind the gas mask coldly sweeping over Hector's face, contorted with fear, as if inspecting raw material about to be processed.
He said nothing, only made a simple gesture.
The two Warriors understood, and like dragging a piece of trash, they pulled the struggling and wailing Governor Hector away from the palace where he had once enjoyed every luxury.
What awaited him was by no means a simple execution, but the 'enthusiastic' hospitality of the Night Lords, who had 'meticulously' researched for ten thousand years how to maximize and 'artistically' present fear and pain.
His end was destined to become a 'work' to warn future generations.
At the same time, in other areas of the Hive City's top layer, the cleansing operation against the Dark Eldar was proceeding with extreme efficiency and chilling silence.
In a brightly lit, luxurious ballroom echoing with eerie Aeldari music, dozens of elegantly dressed, slender Dark Eldar men and women were embracing and swaying to the unsettling rhythm, immersed in the ultimate sensory stimulation.
They were completely unaware that on the shadowy, encircling balcony above the ballroom, several Night Lords Warriors, clad in black power armour and standing like statues, had quietly taken their positions.
They silently raised their Bolters, their crimson eye lenses locking onto the dancing figures below.
No warning, no declaration.
The next moment, the unique, muffled, and deadly roar of the Bolters, like the death knell, suddenly erupted in the ballroom!
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Ornate stained glass shattered in the explosions, and exquisite decorations were torn to shreds.
The Dark Eldar, who had just been indulging in revelry, instantly became scattered flesh and severed limbs under the dense Bolter fire.
Screams, explosions, and the distorted cacophony of music mingled, playing a final symphony of destruction.
In another private villa belonging to a Dark Eldar Pirate leader, the atmosphere was even more sinister.
A Dark Eldar had just finished his 'entertainment' with several captured mortals, contentedly wiping a strangely shaped torture device in his hand.
He turned to enjoy some wine, but suddenly froze in place.
Unbeknownst to him, five Night Lords Warriors, as if seeping from the shadows of the walls, had silently appeared behind him.
Their terrifying and varied face masks—some bat-winged bone, some twisted skulls, some cold metallic masks—appeared particularly grim in the dim light, and their crimson eye lenses burned with cold killing intent in the darkness, like Daemons from hell gazing upon souls.
The Dark Eldar Pirate leader's mouth hung open; extreme fear momentarily rendered him speechless.
Only one thought filled his mind—when did these enter?!
However, he would never get an answer.
The Night Lords Warrior standing at the front, his right hand covered by a Lightning Claw, shot out like a coiled viper!
Eerie blue arcs of electricity crackled at the claw's tips!
"Pfft—crunch!"
The sounds of blades tearing flesh and severing bone were dense and brief.
The Dark Eldar Pirate leader couldn't even let out a proper scream before he was instantly torn into several irregular fragments of flesh by the furious swings of the Lightning Claw, scattering on the floor where he had just inflicted pain.
The cleansing proceeded in silence and efficiency.
The Night Bats of Nostramo, in their most adept manner, delivered fear and death precisely to every fallen individual who had betrayed humanity and colluded with xenos.
The top layer of the Kaandass Hive City, once a paradise for the powerful, was now being mercilessly purified by the deepest night.
The internal clock of the Macragge's Honour pointed to early morning, with the artificial lighting system simulating the dawn's glow, softly illuminating the broad corridors and grand halls of the battleship. After several days of travel, the massive Ultramarines fleet had arrived in the Vespasthol Sector and successfully rendezvoused with the Imperial forces stationed there.
Just at this early hour, a thunderhawk gunship, emblazoned with the unique insignia of the Vespasthol region, smoothly docked on the flagship-grade landing deck of the Macragge's Honour, guided by beacon signals. The hatch opened, and the Vespasthol hero, Decimus Felix, stepped onto the deck of this legendary battleship with steady strides. Behind him followed a squad of warriors clad in deep blue Ironclad Pattern Terminator Armour, adorned with the local iconic crests—his "Invincible Iron Guard." Their heavy footsteps echoed through the hangar, showcasing their formidable combat power and undeniable authority.
The hero's arrival also signaled a temporary end to First Company Captain Cassius Venus's confinement. Orders were quickly issued, and when the thick alloy door of the brig slowly slid open, Cassius almost burst out. Days of hunger and confinement had not dulled his warrior's edge; instead, they had filled him with a strong desire to return to duty.
He quickly returned to his cabin and, with the assistance of his combat servitors, donned his master-crafted power armour, which symbolized his authority as first company captain. The cold ceramite encased his robust physique, bringing a long-missed sense of power and responsibility. Finally, he solemnly put on his helmet, adorned with a prominent transverse crest, and his deep blue cloak was flung behind him, moving as if by an unseen wind, adding to his imposing presence. He felt the familiar hum of the power armour's servo-systems operating and took a deep breath of the battleship's air, a mix of oil and purified oxygen, as if reborn.
Without any delay, he immediately met with the other Company Commanders on the battleship—2nd Company Commander Cato Sicarius, the Company Commander, and others. The group walked with synchronized, heavy, and powerful strides towards the supreme command conference room located in the battleship's core.
Outside the conference room, the atmosphere was grim. Chapter Master Calgar's Honor Guard and Hero Felix's Invincible Iron Guard jointly undertook guard duties. These heavily armored elite warriors stood like steel statues on both sides of the corridor, occupying all critical tactical positions. Their cold gazes swept over everyone who passed, their assault cannons and Power Fists ready to fire at any moment, ensuring that the high-level meeting taking place inside the conference room would not be disturbed, and preventing any suspicious personnel from approaching. A silent sense of oppression permeated the air, as if even the air itself had solidified.
Inside the conference room, around a massive oval metal table, the core high command of the Ultramarines Chapter and the visiting Vespasthol hero were seated. The deep blue power armour contrasted sharply with the hero's locally distinctive armour, yet both collectively represented the formidable military might of the Ultramar Sector.
Chapter Master Marius Calgar sat at the head of the table. His face, like a glacier carved, showed no ripples, but his sharp eyes, as they swept over each Company Commander present, carried significant weight. Seeing that everyone was assembled, he dispensed with pleasantries and immediately began the meeting.
"Company Commanders, Hero of Vespasthol," Calgar's voice was steady and powerful, echoing in the quiet conference room, "I have convened you today for several important matters that require notification and deployment."
He first pointed to a holographic star map suspended in the center of the table, clearly marking the situation of the Ultramar Sector and its surrounding areas.
"The primary task is to strengthen the defensive forces and troop deployment within the core region of Ultramar and across the entire Sector." Calgar's gaze became stern. "The tragedy of Drathemiandas must never be repeated in our home. The threat of Chaos is insidious, and we must, with the strongest posture, protect every inch of Ultramar's territory and every one of its citizens."
He elaborated on the specific requirements for increasing patrol frequency, upgrading orbital defenses of key worlds, and establishing a more efficient early warning network. The Company Commanders listened attentively, occasionally jotting down key points on their data-slates.
"At the same time," Calgar shifted his focus, and the star map expanded to cover the outer and fringe areas of Ultramar, "all Ultramarines successor Chapters must recently intensify patrols of the Ultramar periphery, especially areas bordering unknown star systems and dangerous zones. Patrol squad sizes need to be increased, and they must always be prepared for high-intensity conflicts."
He paused slightly, emphasizing, "Because recently, we have had 'uninvited guests'."
At these words, the expressions of the Company Commanders present grew more solemn. Even the usually composed Cato Sicarius frowned slightly.
Calgar nodded to a Chapter serf standing nearby. The serf immediately operated the control console, projecting a processed surveillance video onto the center of the table.
The footage showed a secluded, dimly lit, alternate pipe passage. Suddenly, an extremely blurry, almost completely transparent, distorted figure flashed past at an incredibly high speed. Had it not been technically enhanced and played in slow motion, it would have been nearly imperceptible.
"This is the only effective image Captain Vitrius and his Honor Guard managed to capture from a massive amount of surveillance data, after more than a dozen standard hours." Calgar's voice was cold. "It can be confirmed that this is an Astartes. He stealthily infiltrated the Macragge's Honour and entered a passage near the core area. During this time, patrolling warriors, working Tech-Priests, and even... the 'Machine Spirit' of our battleship, failed to detect his presence."
The atmosphere in the conference room instantly dropped to freezing point. An Astartes, capable of infiltrating a Gloriana-class flagship so perfectly, the implications were chilling.
"The individual is a master infiltrator, highly skilled." Calgar continued, "Currently, we are not yet certain of his purpose for infiltration—whether it is to steal intelligence, carry out an assassination, or pursue another agenda. But we must prepare for the worst."
His gaze swept over each attendee: "The return of the Night Lords is no secret among the Imperial high command. This major upheaval may well have stirred the nerves of the Chaos Gods and their minions deep within the Warp, and it will inevitably attract the attention of other Traitor Legions. This infiltrator may be connected to this. All of you must be extra vigilant recently, strengthen internal security on your respective vessels and outposts, and strictly prevent similar incidents from happening again."
Subsequently, Calgar turned his gaze to the Vespasthol hero, Decimus Felix.
"Hero, what is the progress of communication with that Eldar Craftworld?"
Hero Felix nodded, pulled out his data-slate, swiped a few times, brought up the communication logs, and reported: "Chapter Master, one day ago, I made contact with the Craftworld that calls itself 'Sam-Hain's Finger' via an encrypted astropathic channel. I informed them that our Ultramarines fleet, during previous operations, took in approximately eight thousand Eldar refugees from the destroyed Craftworld 'Tears of Isha,' the vast majority of whom are young children. We expressed our desire to safely return them to their people."
He paused, then continued: "After a period of silence, they replied. They agreed to accept these refugees but stipulated two conditions: first, we must dispatch transport ships to deliver the refugees to a designated coordinate; second, our battleships and Astartes Brothers are not permitted to approach their Craftworld, and can only release the transport ships from a safe distance."
Calgar heard this and was not surprised. He nodded slightly: "The Eldar are always proud and suspicious; such conditions are reasonable. They do not wish for human armed forces to approach their home too closely." He immediately ordered: "Arrange two inspected and secured transport vessels, equipped with sufficient navigators and basic crew. In twelve standard hours, they will depart to deliver those Eldar children to the designated coordinates. Additionally, tally if any children voluntarily choose to remain, and if so, arrange suitable housing, resources, and Imperial-standard education for them."
"Understood." The Tenth Company Captain, responsible for logistics and refugee affairs, immediately recorded this.
The meeting lasted a full three standard hours, covering various aspects such as defensive deployment, logistical supply, new recruit recruitment, and cooperation with surrounding Imperial forces. Calgar was meticulous in every detail, deploying thoroughly, showcasing his exceptional ability as the supreme commander of Ultramar.
When the meeting finally concluded, and the Company Commanders rose in turn, saluting the Chapter Master before preparing to leave, Cassius secretly breathed a sigh of relief, continually praying that the Chapter Master would not single him out again. He truly did not want to return to that cold brig and be neighbors with that scoundrel Dorian, not even for a minute.
However, what he feared came to pass.
"Cassius," Calgar's calm, unruffled voice sounded behind him, "wait a moment."
Cassius inwardly groaned, cursing his luck, but on the surface, he immediately turned, facing the Chapter Master in the most standard military posture: "Chapter Master, please instruct." He was already mentally prepared to be thrown back into the brig.
However, Calgar's next words caught him by surprise.
"During your confinement, that unknown Astartes infiltrated our battleship." Calgar's gaze was sharp as a blade, falling on Cassius. "This incident highlights that there are still blind spots in our internal vigilance. Relying solely on regular patrols and fixed sentry posts is insufficient to deal with such top-tier infiltrators."
Cassius's heart tightened. Was he going to be blamed for the oversight?
Calgar continued: "Starting tonight, you will personally lead a specialized patrol squad composed of First Company veterans. Your mission is to thoroughly search every area of the battleship during the night—including inconspicuous corners, abandoned storage rooms, secondary energy conduits, and even ventilation shafts. I will authorize you to deploy enough blessed osseous unit servo-robots to scan narrow spaces inaccessible to personnel. Ensure that no 'guests' can freely enter and exit the Macragge's Honour as if it were their own home again."
So it wasn't an additional punishment, but a new, important responsibility! Cassius's hanging heart instantly dropped, replaced by a sense of mission and soaring morale, feeling trusted and entrusted. With a resounding 'thump,' he struck his chest with his fist, his power armour emitting a dull impact sound, and he responded loudly:
"Yes, Chapter Master! I swear on the honor of the First Company, I will not let any scoundrels defile our battleship again!"
Instead of confinement, he was entrusted with such an important security mission; for him, this was a world of difference. He immediately began to plan in his mind which experienced veterans to select, how to divide the patrol areas, and how to maximize the use of those humming blessed osseous units.
Watching Cassius's renewed vigor, Calgar gave a barely perceptible nod. He knew that for a warrior like Cassius, trust and significant responsibility were far more effective in unleashing his potential than mere punishment.
"Go, submit the detailed plan to me as soon as possible." Calgar waved his hand.
Cassius bowed again, then turned and strode out of the meeting room, his deep blue cloak flapping behind him. He was eager to begin his "sweeper" work. At least, it was much more meaningful than listening to Dorian gnaw bread in the brig.
Chapter Master Calgar's order to heighten internal vigilance, like a stone dropped into calm water, quickly sent ripples throughout the massive warship, Macragge's Honour. The order was executed efficiently, the most direct manifestation being a noticeable increase in the number of patrolling and standing warriors in the ship's main corridors, key nodes, and previously more relaxed public areas.
Deep blue figures moved more frequently through the metal corridors, the heavy footsteps of power armour and the subtle hum of servo-systems forming a new background sound. Honour Guard figures also appeared more often in core areas; their more ornate armour, adorned with more honour decorations, and their cold, vigilant gazes all conveyed a clear signal—the warship had entered a higher state of alert.
A small creature like Eiras, extremely sensitive to the ship's environment, noticed this change almost immediately. She peeked out her pink head from the doorway of her parts-filled "workshop," watching a squad of more vigilant patrol warriors than before march in formation down the corridor. A flicker of curiosity passed through her large green eyes.
"Huh? There are more patrolling warriors now..." She mumbled, tilting her head, her little mind quickly whirring. However, this curiosity soon turned into the ease of "not my problem." "Something must have happened! But it's okay, with Chapter Master and the Company Commanders around, any trouble can be solved!" She had almost blind faith in the Ultramarines' strength. In her opinion, even if the sky fell, those tall blue giants would hold it up; she just needed to continue her "research" and... explore the warship with her new friend!
Her new friend, of course, was Laya, who came from a Hive City world and was still not quite accustomed to ship life. Eiras felt that Sister Laya was always gloomy, surely because she hadn't discovered how many fun things there were on this big ship! As a "Senior Resident and Chief Tech-Sergeant (self-proclaimed) of Macragge's Honour," she had the responsibility and duty to guide Sister Laya in familiarizing herself with everything here and make her happy!
And so, over the next few days, Laya was practically dragged by the energetic Eiras on a "deep dive" tour inside the massive warship.
Eiras first showed Laya how to "effectively utilize" the ship's resources. She led Laya to a busy hangar repair area, where several Tech-Priests were gathered around a malfunctioning thunderhawk gunship engine, performing diagnostics with binaric chant-accompanied mechanical arms.
"Watch closely, Sister Laya!" Eiras whispered, mysteriously pulling out a small device, glowing with a faint red light, from who-knew-where. While the Tech-Priests weren't looking, she quietly tossed it onto a tool rack next to the engine.
Within seconds, the device suddenly emitted a piercing, erratic "beep beep beep" noise, accompanied by flashing red light. The Tech-Priests, engrossed in their work, were immediately drawn to this sudden interference. Several mechanical tentacles reached out curiously towards the device, and their binaric prayers became somewhat muddled.
"Hehehe, quick, let's go!" Eiras pulled the stifling-a-laugh Laya, quickly escaping the "crime scene," leaving behind a group of bewildered Tech-Priests studying the inexplicable little gadget.
Next, Eiras demonstrated how to "mobilize" the taciturn combat servitors. She ran up to a servitor who was moving heavy power cells, stood on her tiptoes, patted the servitor's simply armored leg (it was all she could reach), and then, in a mock-serious tone imitating an officer's command, said: "Soldier! I, in the name of... in the name of Lady Eiras, command you! Move this box of cells to my workshop! This is... this is for important technical research!"
The servitor paused. Its simple processing core seemed unable to comprehend such non-standard instructions, but keywords like "command" and "move" triggered its basic programming. It silently turned around, carrying the heavy box of cells, and followed the haughty Eiras and the incredulous Laya towards Eiras's cluttered corner.
"See! Simple, right!" Eiras clapped her hands proudly, as if she had accomplished a magnificent feat.
But what truly shocked Laya was when Eiras secretly took her to visit the First Company's three dreadnoughts, regarded as mobile holy relics and legendary symbols.
They passed through layers of guarded areas, finally arriving at a particularly grand hall with solemn lighting. This place was called the "Hall of Heroes," where sleeping heroes rested and awaited activation.
On three exceptionally tall static cradles stood three war machines, as majestic and massive as ancient temples.
The leftmost one, painted deep blue and white, its heavy armour covered with honour marks from countless battles, its massive multi-melta and Power Fist silently hanging low. Eiras whispered with almost reverent tones: "This is 'fist of macragge'! An ancient hero sleeps inside, who is said to have once saved Lord Guilliman!"
The middle one had a sharper style, its armour carved with lightning patterns that seemed to tear through the air, equipped with multi-melta guns on both shoulders, giving off a wild sense of oppression. "This is 'wrath of corax'! I heard the senior inside has a bad temper, but he's incredibly powerful in combat!"
The rightmost one appeared more stable and robust, like an indestructible bulwark, its massive shield-shaped attachment and shoulder-mounted laser cannon showcasing its dual duties of protection and destruction. "This is 'shield of the emperor'! A Contemptor Pattern dreadnought, the oldest of the three, but also the strongest in defense!"
Laya stood at the feet of these silent iron giants, gazing up at their mountainous forms, feeling the chilling aura of war and the weight of history that emanated even in their slumber. She had seen the luxury of the Hive City's upper levels, the authority of the Planetary Governor, and even the eerie and dangerous creations of the Dark Eldar, but these ancient war machines before her, perfectly combining warrior and machine, embodying millennia of legacy and unyielding will, still brought an unprecedented impact to her soul. It was a solemn and awe-inspiring feeling that transcended a mere display of power, stemming from faith and sacrifice.
Eiras looked at Laya's shocked expression and smiled contentedly. She felt this was the feeling Macragge's Honour should evoke!
After letting Laya experience the ship's monotonous nutrient paste, which only provided basic energy, and the heavy footsteps of the Saturnine Terminator patrol squad, which made the deck subtly tremble like the booming of war drums, Eiras began her "educational session."
She pointed to a squad of Terminators who had just passed by, her small face full of pride, openly displaying her pride in Ultramar: "Sister Laya, look! These big guys are Terminators! Super powerful! Their armour is especially thick, and their firepower is incredibly fierce! Those you just saw were wearing 'Saturnine Pattern' terminator armour!"
She spoke like a professional armorer, gushing on: "These Saturnine Pattern ones, our Chapter Master used to trade for them from those black bro... uh, I mean, from those reliable brothers of the Salamanders Chapter!" She almost let slip, quickly correcting herself, "Initially, only thirteen sets were traded for testing, even Lord Dorian got one! Later, everyone found this terminator armour to be super effective, strong in defense, and highly reliable, so Chapter Master waved his hand and directly traded for an entire company's worth of Saturnine Terminators!"
She spread her arms, gesturing a "huge" concept, as if embracing the entire warship: "So now you can see these big guys everywhere on the ship! Although I heard they were a bit expensive..." She tilted her head in thought, then immediately puffed out her chest, saying in a "no big deal" tone, "But these expenses are just a drop in the ocean for our wealthy Ultramar! Child's play!"
Watching her proud expression, Laya couldn't help but be infected by her enthusiasm, a slight smile gracing her lips. Although these past few days of "forced" touring had caused a significant backlog in her paperwork, leaving her a bit helpless, it had indeed shown her another side of this iron fortress—a vibrant and orderly side, unlike the bureaucratic system of the Hive City.
Eiras's "tour guide" work was clearly not over. She seemed determined to train Laya into a "ship expert," and began pulling her again, pointing to different patterns of Terminator warriors in the distance for "on-site teaching."
"Sister Laya, look! The biggest ones! The loudest footsteps, making the ground shake when they walk, with two semi-circular shoulder pads, like two big pipes on their shoulders—those are the Saturnine Pattern! Clumsy but reliable!"
"That one over there! The one that looks a bit round, like a big can, with decorative cloth straps hanging below its shoulder pads—that's the 'Ironclad Pattern'! Usually worn by Company Commanders or veteran Sergeants, they charge in ferociously!"
"And also, also! Look at that one that just came out of the hangar! Its helmet looks a bit like a wolf's head, and it's covered with heavy firepower like assault cannons, cyclone missiles—the one that looks tough to mess with, that's the 'Indomitus Pattern'! It's a dedicated fire platform!"
Her small mouth was like a wind-up machine gun, speaking rapidly, with a huge amount of information, various model characteristics, uses, and even some gossip spilling out. Laya was dazzled, her head filled with all sorts of knowledge about power armour and Terminators, feeling more mentally exhausted than processing those complex supply manifests.
Just as Eiras was pointing to a Honour Guard Warrior in the distance, preparing to explain the difference between artificer power armour and standard power armour, a low broadcast sounded in the corridor. It was an announcement that the Honour Guard was beginning to clear this area for routine security checks and equipment maintenance.
"Oh dear, it's time!" Eiras smacked her lips regretfully, "They're doing a big clean-up, we have to go."
Only then did she reluctantly bid farewell to Laya, promising to continue their "adventure" tomorrow. Laya watched the small pink figure skip and disappear around the corridor corner, letting out a long sigh of relief. She felt that the events of the past few days were more... colourful and physically demanding than what she had experienced in a year at the Governor's Mansion. She rubbed her throbbing temples, deciding to go back to her cabin to rest first. As for the piled-up paperwork... well, maybe she could deal with it later.